Run: 2026-04-24-01KPZV3C4HC0PP5JSW191DA68M

Molly spread the blueprints across the sticky diner table, smoothing out a smear of maple syrup with her sleeve. The layout of the Pemberton residence glowed under the flickering neon sign, every bouncy castle, piñata, and present table marked in red ink like surgical targets. Bill hunched opposite her, stuffing hash browns into his mouth with the reverence of a man at communion. Crumbs tumbled onto the northwest entry point. "Watch the ketchup," she muttered. He grunted, wiping his mouth on a napkin already decorated with their getaway route. Seven-year-old Timmy Pemberton was turning eight on Saturday, and according to the RSVP list Molly had intercepted from the recycling bin, twenty-three children of venture capitalists and hedge fund managers would be in attendance. The gift table, by her calculations, would groan under at least forty thousand dollars of tastefully wrapped loot. Drones. Gold-plated Legos. A pony, possibly, though the pony presented logistical complications they hadn't yet resolved. Bill tapped the clown icon on the diagram, raising a greasy eyebrow. "You're the clown," Molly confirmed. He sighed, defeated, and reached for another pancake, already mourning the dignity he would surrender by Saturday afternoon at precisely two o'clock.